


Fragile Walls

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Everything Hurts but Everything Heals, Hurt/Comfort, It'll get sweet I promise, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Drug Use, Slow Build, Therapy, falling in love and stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 21:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6129943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius can feel the pulse of the song in his bones, and it makes him smile, because the louder the song is, the less space he has in his head to think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragile Walls

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings for addiction, alcoholism, child abuse, discussion of heroin and its effects, etc.
> 
> I've personally never experienced addiction or heroin injection, and so I'm sorry if any of the facts in here are false or misleading. Feel free to message me if anything in here offends you or is incorrect.

Sirius can feel the pulse of the song in his bones, and it makes him smile, because the louder the song is, the less space he has in his head to think.

 

It's the kind of club where all music is played at a volume that equates to small earthquakes on the Richter Scale, and the dance floor is too many neon colors splashing around. His nose is clogged up with the smell of alcohol and rancid body odor mixed futilely with rosy perfume. He lost his shirt in the corner of the club somewhere, and his brain was just foggy enough that he's grinding up against some pretty girl with long legs and a nice smile and he's thinking about having her blow him in the bathroom.

The girl whirls around and bites down on his lips with her too-white teeth and he thinks _yes_ and kisses her hard enough to bruise. She guides his hands to rest lightly on her full chest and he pulls them away from the dance floor, leaning her up against a wall.

The song changes, and the song slows down, and so does Sirius, kissing her slow and intense. She lets him card a hand through her platinum hair, and whispers to him, "Wanna go to my hotel across the street?"

 

Sirius holds up one hand and grabs three shots off an empty table, and lets them pour down his throat and pool warmly in his stomach. He turns around and looks at her, and she's got watery, blank eyes and hair that's going flat and a too-short miniskirt. He smiles at her, and she attacks him with her mouth again, and it's perfect and he feels so wrong but drunk enough that it doesn't even matter at this point.

***

He leaves early in the morning, and he goes to his flat.

His head hurts and his body feels like lead and he's pretty sure neither is because he's hungover, so he grabs a beer and checks his phone.

It's a cheap, shitty flip phone and it takes forever to turn on, but when it does, there's two messages waiting for him.

One's from Berg, just saying _got ur shit if uve got the money. Get back 2 me_

 

Another's from his brother, and he deletes it without reading it.

He texts Berg back and says, _see you at 11??_

***

The thing about Berg is that he's not a very successful dealer.

He's got access to the good stuff, but not enough customers to inflate prices, which is why Sirius chose him.

 

Berg hangs out in the sketchy part of town, and he deals from the skeleton of a warehouse only a few blocks from Sirius's apartment, so Sirius finishes the rest of his beer first and heads down to the warehouse at an easy pace.

Berg's leaning next to a door piled high with scraps of cardboard, wearing a nice dress shirt and black slacks. He says that it's to make him look more successful. Sirius personally thinks that it makes him look even more suspicious, but whatever.

Berg smiles pleasantly when he sees Sirius, and says, "You look like hell."

"I always look like hell," Sirius says.

Berg shrugs. "Got the cash?"

"How much've you got?"

"3000 milligrams," he says, eyeing Sirius. "Wasn't easy to get."

"Show me."

He pulls out a small bag filled with white powder. "Good enough?"

Sirius digs out his wallet. "Cost?"

"Bout thirteen hundred pounds, I reckon," he says. "Can you front the money?"

Sirius pulls out his wallet, and grabs all his cash. "That enough?"

Berg whistles. "Man, you should consider dealing, with how much cash you've always got."

Sirius laughs, and grabs the bag. He tucks it into his jacket pocket, because no one really checks you around here. "Not something to say your customer," Sirius says, aiming for funny but coming out blunt. It was happening more these days.

Berg tips an imaginary hat to Sirius. "Pleasure doing business with you."

Sirius rolls his eyes and walks away.

***

After the first few times of shooting up, Sirius realized that unless he wanted to die from HIV or hepatitis, he should probably invest in his own syringe.

As soon as he gets back home, he takes off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves. Then, he heads to his bedroom, where there's a loose floorboard under his bed.

He pulls out the box, and grabs the syringe out of it. Then he grabs a cotton ball, a water bottle, a spoon, and the plastic bag of heroin, and settles down on the floor.

 

Sirius thinks to himself, _I'm so royally screwed,_ and starts mixing the drug for injection.

***

Heroin's a highly addictive drug.

It's an opiate, which means that it's derived from opium. And the British literally hooked the Chinese on opium just so they could have more ports in China.

China, which had wanted no foreign contact whatsoever.

And its population got so hooked on it that they gave England Hong Kong for like one hundred years. _China._

 

Twenty three percent of heroin users become dependent on the drug.

 

Sherlock Holmes used it (didn't he? Sirius wasn't sure anymore--)

 

But there was a reason for why people used it. It made them feel _good._

Sirius was soaring through clouds, and it's like the ground doesn't exist. He doesn't feel his shackles.

He doesn't feel anything.

He feels like he's flying and dying at the same time, and he's alright with that, at the moment.

***

This club is dusty and musky, but the music pounds in his veins and there's so much alcohol that the bartenders can't keep track of who paid and who didn't.

So it's perfect, in Sirius's book.

Sirius knocks back three shots before he starts to feel woozy.

 

He stumbles away from the dance floor and places a hand on the wall, taking in deep breaths. The girl he'd been dancing with shoots him a concerned look, and moves on to someone else.

He runs through what he's eaten today, and--oh.

That would be nothing.

That's a problem.

 

He slides down to the floor, and puts his head in between his legs, and tries to calm down his racing heart.

It really shouldn't be racing so much.

He takes breaths slower and slower and the music grows louder and someone's giggling next to him, and cheap perfume is giving him a headache and there are too many lights and not enough oxygen and he's going to _die, he's going to really die this time and_ \--

He stumbles to the exit, and he doesn't think he actually got outside until he smells car exhaust mixed with cold night air and throws up onto the sidewalk.

 

His hands scrape against the pavement and his eyes won't open and he feels like he's really dying this time, that it isn't just pretend.

 

A voice above him asks, "Are you alright, mate?"

 

Sirius blinks, and black spots dot his vision. There's a pale face with glasses towering over him, and--"No," he rasps.

"Can you get up?"

 

Sirius pushes up with his arm, and then he passes out and that's probably a solid answer right there.

*

* * *

 

*

The moment James dragged in the man, Remus knew that something was seriously wrong.

The man was completely limp and stick thin, and out cold. James looked like he was panicking as he dropped the man on Remus's couch, stammering out something about walking down the street, and him collapsing, and James not knowing what to do and oh god what is he supposed to do??

Remus holds up a hand, and checks the guy's pulse first, checking his watch for the minute mark.

97 BPM. Not ideal, but certainly nothing to worry about yet.

He checks the guy's breathing, and that's fine, too. Steady and even, and his skin is a normal temperature, and sweaty but not really wet.

Remus turns him onto his side, and checks his breathing one more time, before straightening up.

"Where," Remus says, "the _fuck_ did you find him?"

James shrugs. He's still wearing his jacket that makes him look like an absolute asshole (the upturned collar is always what gets Remus), with work clothes on underneath. His hair is ruffled up and he's breathing heavily, as if he'd just run a long time.

"On the street," James says. "He collapsed--"

"Wait," Remus says, "You brought a druggie you found on the street home, _to our flat?_ "

 

James falters. "Um, well--I just--maybe--?" he blinks. "What do you mean, druggie?"

Remus raises his eyebrows. "For a guy training to be a detective, you're really thick. He's stick thin, and..." Remus pulls up a sleeve of the man's thin shirt, revealing bruises and abscesses next to his veins, "Obviously injects. Heroin, I'd guess. You're trying to kill us, James."

James raises his hands in surrender. "I just freaked! And you're the first person I thought of."

"Instead of 999?"

"We can take him there now!"

"We probably should, he'll have our address if he wakes up," Remus says. "And _then_ we'd be dead. He'd probably murder us."

James shifts uncomfortably. "You don't know that," he says.

"We don't know! He's a _drug_ addict, James," Remus says. "They're dangerous, and you brought one here instead of the hospital."

"You know, that's rich, coming from you," James says quietly.

 

Remus stops dead. "What did you just say to me?"

"You _heard_ me, Rem," James says. His eyes are steely. "He is in trouble, and we could still call the police, have them take him away. But I think he'll probably just leave, and it's hell of a lot better than him being locked up for not even hurting anyone."

 

Remus sucks in a deep breath. "He's dangerous to himself. He needs to be rehab--"

"We don't _know_ him!" James says.

"Yeah, and he could be a serial killer!" Remus shoots back.

"Alright, fine. Let's take him to a hospital," James says. His eyes seem to almost be _daring_ Remus, and his skin crawls. Sometimes he hates James a little bit, when he gets like this.

 

Remus takes a deep breath. He's so gonna regret this--

"No. I can take care of him."

James looks up. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. I'm beyond pissed at you, but we don't know him. We can't just sentence him to rehab, even though he _really does need it._ "

"It'd probably be the better option," James admits.

"Yeah, but it doesn't work unless you want it," Remus exhales through his nose. "It seems like, despite everything he's done to himself, he's only passed out from exhaustion. I'll take him to the spare room, and if he dies there, you're the one going to trial, not me. Understand?"

James nods, and Remus sets his jaw, and lifts the guy up.

He's way too light for a grown man (aged about...twenty?) and Remus carries him bridle-style because it seems like the safer option with an unconscious guy who could throw up at any time. James opens up the spare room door for Remus, and Remus carefully settles the guy down on the bed, thanking the stars that they hadn't gotten around to stripping the sheets off since the last time Peter had stayed over.

Remus lays the man down on the bed, and plops into an armchair near to the bed, sighing a little bit.

James is still standing at the door, shifting uncomfortably. "Listen, what I said--"

Remus holds up a hand, and James falls silent, which is how Remus knows that James is really sorry. "It's just," Remus says, "you're right, but I'm still pissed. God, you're right, James, just--let me make sure this guy doesn't die, and we'll talk, okay?"

James swallows. "I just, shouldn't have really brought it up--"

"Later," Remus says. "Please."

James nods, and Remus takes a deep breath, and resigns to  himself to watching a pale guy with injection bruises up and down his arms.

 *

* * *

*

When he wakes up, the first thing out of his mouth is, "You're not the guy who found me."

There's a guy sitting next the bed he's in. He's got sandy brown hair, and scars tracing up and down his arms and face.

 

Scar Guy makes a face, and says, "No, that'd be James. Send him a fruit basket or something later."

"I can't really afford a fruit basket," Sirius says, starting to sit up, and _wow,_ everything hurts. "What happened?"

Scar Guy shrugs. "You got off lucky," he says. "All that alcohol and the amount of drugs in your system, and you seemed to only have passed out because of exhaustion."

Sirius frowns. "Not to be, you know, ungrateful or anything, but...shouldn't I be in a hospital?"

 

Scar Guy sits back, and his eyes are impossible to read. He picks at his shirt a bit. "It's just...you're a drug addict, that much is obvious, and I'm training to be a doctor, so."

"Well...thanks," Sirius says. "Um, can I...?"

Scar Guy nods, and Sirius forces his aching bones out of bed. Scar Guy watches him, and doesn't offer to help.

Before Sirius reaches the door to the bedroom, he stops. "Why were you just watching me sleep?" he asks.

"Because you're oh so interesting," Scar Guy deadpans from behind him. "Or, because I wasn't sure you were going to wake up, and I was monitoring you."

Sirius swallows, and turns around. "Thank you," Sirius says, looking him right in the eye.

"You should really enroll yourself in some kind of program," Scar Guy says.

"I don't need help," Sirius says.

Scar Guy's lip quirks up a little bit. "You know, the first step to recovery is acceptance."

"My name is Sirius," Sirius says.

"Remus," the guy says.

 

Sirius leaves quickly and quietly.

When he gets back to his flat, he lasts two hours before giving in and shooting up again.

*

* * *

 

*

Sirius leaves quickly, and Remus can't say he's not relieved.

There's something dark in that guy's eyes, something that made Remus really uncomfortable.

 

After Sirius left in a dramatic flourish, Remus finds James in the kitchen, scooping Cheerios into his mouth and constantly checking his texts. Probably waiting for Lily to respond, because of course he is.

Remus sits down in the chair across from him, and James locks his phone. "Is he gone, then?" James asks quietly.

Remus nods. "Quite keen to leave, really," Remus says.

 

James nods, and shifts a little uncomfortably. He looks like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop, and Remus isn't going to torture him.

 

"You shouldn't have said that," Remus says. "I mean, I know it's completely true. I'm not going to pretend that it isn't, because it's my past and you were right there with me. But god, James, don't ever, _ever_ use it as leverage again, or I swear to God I will leave this place."

James nods silently, and rechecks his phone, before eyeing Remus.

 

Remus sighs. James has never been too good at listening to serious things. 

So, instead of continuing, Remus says, "Fine. Lemme have it. What's going on?"

 

James's eyes widen comically, and he holds up his phone and waves it around. "So I invited Lily to go bowling with you, me, and Peter--"

_"Bowling?_ _"_

"Yeah, we have Lads' Bowling Night every month--"

"No, we don't. Do you even know how to bowl?"

James scowls. "Duh, everyone does. But she hasn't responded yet--"

"Because it's absolute shit, James, and she's not dumb."

"Be quiet, or I'll put glue in your toothpaste again," James grouches. "Anyway, she hasn't responded, and I'm thinking that maybe she thinks it's a stupid idea, or that I'm lying, and I need her to respond, because who doesn't respond to your friends? We're friends, right? Are we not friends? I mean, I know she hated me, but--"

"James, she's taking so long to respond because it's a vaguely concealed attempt at a date, she definitely knows that we don't do 'monthly bowling nights', and she _doesn't hate you,_ though I have no idea why not," Remus interrupts.

James pouts. "It's not a vaguely concealed attempt at a date, it's a good plan--"

His phone chimes, and Remus leans over to see what it says.

 

_From: Scary Redhead (Who is also My Future Wife)_

_James, I know you guys don't have monthly bowling nights. Don't be daft. Also, run your plans through with Rem first so you don't sound like a complete idiot next time._

 

 

And Remus just points and laughs at James while he just pouts, and neither think about the unconscious man that James had dragged in just a couple of hours ago.

*

* * *

*

Sirius is floating away from everything, into the clouds.

He'd quite like to be a cloud. It seems like a nice profession.

 

Sometimes heroin feels like the distance between falling asleep and being asleep. Other times, it's just like floating in a lake, and letting the water wash over you, into your lungs.

 

Somewhere in his mind, a wry smile whispers, _the first step to recovery is acceptance._

 

And yes, Sirius thinks. He'd quite like to accept this life. Swimming in a lake was much better than being on a shore and staring at the water, in his opinion.

 

 


End file.
